


please, please let me protect you.

by ninecrimes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pining, Prompt Fill, Self-Defence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninecrimes/pseuds/ninecrimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he thinks she could hold the weight of a city on the strength of her upturned brow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	please, please let me protect you.

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fill from marrishzone: Parrish teaching Lydia self-defence. Not a lot of the teaching in this fic, I work better in the abstract of feelings and such. Hope you like it!

.

Sometimes he thinks she could hold the weight of a city on the strength of her upturned brow.

"What are you doing here, Deputy?"

Jordan shifts uneasily, his hand resting ever-present on the firearm at his hip. He’d prepared what he’d come here to say, but her inquisitive smirk ( _as usual_ ) throws him off balance. So he throws the blame for his unwarranted intrusion elsewhere.

What he says: “Sheriff Stilinski thought you should get some self-defence training,” and he’s surprised at how his voice doesn’t shake, “because of the… the list.”

What he doesn’t say: You are a fire, you are a storm, you are the least defenceless person I can think of with your sharp mind and your eerie gifts. But you are seventeen, you are a girl, you are worth twenty million dollars to men and women who will never respect your strength, you are, every cent, a walking cheque—and you do not have claws and fangs with which to defend yourself. Please, please let me protect you.

Lydia smiles— _smiles_ —like she’s looking right through him, and dear god does he hope that the banshee thing doesn’t let her read his mind—

"Let me get my coat."

.

She knocks on his door at two in the morning, looking as lost as the day he found her at the Walcott house, her hands around her elbows.

"Lydia?"

He hates how he voices it like a question—as if he could mistake her for someone else, as if there’d be any other person looking this devastating, this beautiful, in the silent hours between the set and the rise; as if his whole body doesn’t sing at the sight of her. Of  _course_  it’s Lydia.

He ushers her inside, watching as she grounds herself by trailing her fingers against the walls of his apartment. He wonders how many stories live in these walls, whispering under her soft touch.

They reach his living room, and in this open space he watches as her eyes tighten, her stance grows rigid and—

He catches her fist before it strikes him, surprised at the weight behind the throw. “Lydia, what—”

She twists and catches him in the stomach with her elbow, the last of his breath she hadn’t already stolen leaving him in a rush. She manages to wrench her wrist free from him and turns, hair flying, fists up in front of her face, cheeks red and beautiful,  _so beautiful_ , and she gasps, “fight me,” with that inquisitive brow daring him to come closer.

 _Tomorrow,_  he thinks. _I’ll ask her tomorrow._

If in the meantime she wants to beat away her demons by throwing punches and learning to trust in the fluidity of her body to protect her when her pack cannot, well.

He will be more than happy to teach her.

.


End file.
